


Fog and Rain

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fog pressed against the window. Sherlock was trying to clear his head and John was asleep on the couch. He really had no choice but to wake him up.<br/>A gift for the incomparable skyefullofstars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fog and Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyefullofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyefullofstars/gifts).



> A little story for my friend Skyfullofstars, with love and thoughts and wishes for good fortune:)  
> Hugs my friend.  
> I asked for three words. She gave me fog, rain, and snore.
> 
> Thank you mattsloved1 for checking this for me.  
> Don’t own, might some day:D

The fog pressed against one of the windows in the flat on Baker Street. The fog, a still, thick blanket of suspended droplets, milled around and peered inside, tiny currents in the air moved and swirled, created amorphous patterns. Featureless faces and lazy forms of disembodied spirit animals appeared to be watching the two men who lived there. It was the type of cold, misty day that instilled a desire for shelter, warmth, and tea, in front of a fire.

 One of the residents of this particular flat was tall, slim of build, with dark hair, hints of auburn when the light struck it just so, handsome, in an unconventional way. Most thought of him as cold and unfeeling, inappropriate. He would not have appreciated idle fancies and mystical imagery about atmospheric conditions. It was fog. Water droplets. It had neither intelligence nor design and was inanimate. It did not watch or gather information about the people it surrounded. The man, Sherlock, was a scientist and detective, a pirate back in the day when flights of imagination were an acceptable pastime. He was too busily engaged in studying evidence from a crime scene to pay attention to inclement weather.

 The second, who had a more active imagination and within whom sentiment and romanticism were firm friends, would have watched the fog, watched it as it moved and spun and then melted and cleared when the rain, predicted for later that day, lifted the blanket cocooned around Baker Street. Unfortunately he was missing it, as he was fast asleep on the sofa after a long night. He had spent the previous evening dashing behind the direct cause of his fatigue, that annoying, infuriating, marvelous stimulus of adrenalin and pure unadulterated joy, the love of his life. This man, John, was also handsome but in a warm and comfortable way. Shorter, compact and muscular, he was a doctor and a former soldier, his open and honest face could lull someone into thinking he was easygoing.The homey sound of a soft and gentle snore was emanating from him as he dozed away the afternoon.

 Sherlock, who had been stationary for long hours, was unable to come to a direct conclusion and process the evidence of the latest crime he was investigating. He stood and stretched, his purple shirt slipped out from his trousers and as his arms came over his head, a small sliver of silvery skin peeked out. If John had been awake he would have found his eyes drawn to that strip of skin, warm and inviting, waiting for his hand to come to it and slowly stroke across it, bend down and caress it with his clever lips. They would allude to the promise of what they could do to a fully undressed expanse of pale pink and ivory skin. Sadly, John was deeply asleep and dreaming and missed out on that particular sight.

 A hand ruffled his hair, then wiped his eyes and Sherlock walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He needed to clear his head, to lift the brume of confused thoughts, which churned and eddied throughout his mind and created unsettled, unconnected ideas. He paused when he saw John lying asleep on the sofa; his eyes flickered up and down the slumbering man, the key to clarity and the catalyst that illuminated a darkened path. An unguarded smile, a just-for-John smile, embraced his lips and there was a softening around his eyes John only saw, sometimes. A tight knot of feeling thudded in his chest, heavy and precious, as heat coursed through his abdomen. Here was his reality, the one he believed in, his centre and his heart, although he couldn’t say that out loud. For all of his knowledge and intelligence, all of his quick wit, he simply didn’t have the words to tell John his true feelings. He required an uncomplicated and more biological approach to let John understand the simple truths of his affection. This approach would hopefully lead him to being able to express clear, cool, liquid thoughts, definitely for the work, perhaps someday for the man.

 He kindled ideas of what he could do instead of say, fingers against his mouth he would sit on the edge of the sofa and lift his other hand to trace John’s lips, the way he was tracing his own. The indigo eyes would gradually flutter open, sleep rimmed, a lazy smile filling out his mouth. He would watch him as Sherlock took that same hand and journeyed down John’s chest, over his stomach and to his belt. He would slowly unbuckle it and he would watch those incredible eyes turn to impossible night as desire and want spread through John. There wouldn’t be speech, not a word said out loud, just soft sighs, gasps and eventually unguarded moans. Since Sherlock couldn’t express or say the things he longed to and he had the desire to find the eloquence he wanted and needed to define his feelings, he just had to channel it in a different way. He would use his fingers and hands and mouth to show John, tell him by stroking fevered skin with mouth and tongue. He would whisper kisses on his flesh and hold him in his arms, one clenched in his hair, one wrapped around him, teasing, stroking, as John shouted his name and used the words _he_ could say, _his_ words of praise and adoration, the marvellous words he could express for the both of them, speak of the love that was present, that existed and flowed between them.

 As Sherlock’s mind wandered through these thoughts, he did find himself sitting down and he lifted his hand and brushed John’s lips. John’s eyes fluttered open and as he blinked himself awake, he smiled, his heartbreaking I-love-you-Sherlock smile. His eyes darkened and he sighed and gasped and moaned as Sherlock moved his incredible, mobile tongue and mouth and peppered his skin with hints and kissed with promises. John clutched and cried out and spoke words of adoration and love. He murmured encouragement and held Sherlock as bliss was returned in kind. And finally, as breath was restored, as pulses slowed, as the two lay wrapped in each other, burned with each other, the rain came, cleared the skies and freshened the air. The fog departed on the sounds of soft laughter and John’s murmurs of love.

 


End file.
